


Look. See.

by Bonster



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonster/pseuds/Bonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We should practice, Peril."</p><p>"I can pretend to be irritated with you no problem, Cowboy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look. See.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lanyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/gifts).



Sometimes Napoleon Solo brings up ideas. Ideas that are outside the box.

Today, when his latest idea is brought up, Gaby Teller scoffs and Illya Kuryakin is clearly resisting an eye roll, if the pursed lips and brow twitch are any indication.

Napoleon tries to maintain his blank complacent facade, but a slight pout emerges. He thought his idea would have made for a great change of pace, thank you very much.

"No, Solo," Alex Waverly says, looking somewhat pained. "Just because it worked for Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, does not mean it'd be a good idea for an even somewhat reputable agency to follow suit. Some like it not."

Napoleon sighs, but glances to his right at Illya, sitting beside him in the small office.

Illya has given in and done his eye roll, and might in fact be calling Napoleon downright nasty things in Russian under his breath. Was that something about a horse?

Napoleon's lips twitch. He feels a little satisfaction there, at least. Riling the Red Peril is one of his great joys. "Well," Napoleon says. "Nobody's perfect."

After the meeting, Gaby walks up to Napoelon and stares up at him. It's rather unnerving, what with her looking into his eyes like she's searching for something in particular. "Problem?" he says.

Her eyes narrow and she purses her lips, challenge and accusation all at once. "You just want to see Illya in a dress."

He did not, in fact, want to see Illya in a dress. He hopes his frown and tsk conveys that.

Gaby's eyebrows lift. " _You_ wanted to wear a dress?".

Napoleon sighs. "Mostly, I wanted to see if and how U.N.C.L.E. could find one, for me and for Illya. Most of the tailors with exquisite designs around here are not so bohemian-minded, even just to satisfy curiosity." He pauses. "And Isabella who coordinates such things, would finally have an excuse to get to know me better." He smirks, just a little.

Gaby rolls her eyes. "You would suggest a mission idea just to flirt." She walks off, clearly dismissing him.

It wasn't just a mission idea. It was just a letting of superiors know that he was all in on this. For justice, truth, and all that. And maybe a pinch of mischief and a dash of making interesting paperwork for Waverly.

"Isabella would be more interested in Gaby than in you." Illya drolly says from beside him.

Napoleon is surprised by both the words and the fact that Illya is still in the hall. "Damn. I read that one wrong, then." Nonplussed, he starts walking away, wondering only slightly why Illya is still standing there.

They are called in that night for a hasty mission briefing, before being whisked to an airplane bound for Los Angeles.

Napoleon is still laughing as their flight takes off. "We should practice, Peril."

"I can pretend to be irritated with you no problem, Cowboy." Illya says from across the aisle. His eyes are closed, head pressed to the seat's headrest.

Gaby groans, muttering about not being paid enough to be a babysitter. She pulls her eye mask over her eyes, before getting comfortable with a travel pillow and blanket.

Napoleon just laughs again, looking out the window.

Their mission is for Napoleon and Illya to pose as a couple on the outs. With Gaby as Illya's cousin whose been sent to drag him back to Germany, leaving Napoleon lonely, sad, and a perfect mark for their target, one Frederick Marshall. Dear old Fred had been a simple accountant at one time, before he went into the drug trade, then the arms trade, and now the national secrets trade. Selling nuclear secrets and devices to the highest bidder was not something to be taken lightly.

Fred was known for his discrete encounters with men, if by discrete one means said encounters were never heard from again. He went for vulnerability: prostitutes, those bereft of their lover, young men who were trying to escape abusive situations.

Napoleon would have to appear to be everything but the suave, debonair, carefree, and most of all, confident person he usually was for this.

Considering the price for failure was nuclear fallout, he'd give it his best shot.

After settling in at their hotel, the trio meets one last time before departing to the exclusive soiree in a non-descript club where their target will be. Napoleon is in a simple white dress shirt, top button unbuttoned for this, and dark blue slacks. When Illya arrives, Napoleon takes a few seconds to drink his partner in. Forgoing the usual hat and turtleneck, Illya is in a tailored three-piece charcoal gray suit and a blue tie that makes his eyes pop. Napoleon sometimes forgets how handsome Illya is, due to the nature of their violent, covert lifestyle and Illya's own attitude. Illya is just Illya, most days. But today....

Napoleon doesn't even notice Gaby come in, not until she clears her throat. She pointedly looks from Napoleon to Illya and back, and raises an eyebrow that says, Really?

As someone who rarely feels shame, he's not the slightest bit chagrined that she's calling him on what she's seeing, so he just lightly shrugs at her.

Napoleon looks to Illya to see his reaction, if any. Illya's steadily looking back at him. There's a slight contemplative look in his eyes.

Napoleon hopes his face shows the _perhaps_ blossoming under his skin.

Illya abruptly stiffens and says, "Let's go". He heads out the door.

Gaby's mouth is turned down, but she looks just this side of sympathetic. She follows Illya out the door.

Napoleon feels a little like a wisp of something has just disappeared into the wind.

They leave for the mission.

The darkened room is perfect for them, as it will mostly hide any body language anomalies in a supposed couple. Illya's hand on Napoleon's back sends a shiver of something up his spine, and he refuses to think of it as desire. He swallows and leans back into the hand slightly, as they move across the room to a free table.

Napoleon is actually feeling, and not just pretending to be, off-kilter. He figures since there's supposed to be tension, it makes the mission all in all easier.

At least that's what he's telling himself.

They've been waiting for twenty minutes, making small talk that looked more intimate, but the more Napoleon touches Illya's arm, back, once even his hair as a strand fell out of place, the deeper the frown gets from Illya, the more clipped his speech, the more he backs away. The distance is a tangible thing that Napoleon doesn't know how to navigate.

It's a relief when Fred shows up.

Napoleon presses his head next to Illya's ear, his partner stiffening even more if possible, and says, "Target is here." Gaby is listening in via the bug under the collar of Illya's shirt.

Gaby suddenly storms up to them, speaking fast in German to Illya. She glares at Napoleon, waves her hand up and down his frame. _This? This is what you're choosing over your family?_

Illya looks pained as he glances to Napoleon.

Napoleon honestly can't tell if Peril is acting or not, when it's usually so easy.

Illya speaks in German to Gaby. _I thought. I thought-_ , he cuts himself off, the last bit sounding soft and resigned. He turns away from Napoleon.

Napoleon, feeling more adrift than he knows he should, if he were truly pretending, says "Stay with me. Please." Desperation that isn't faked at all seeping into the last word. He says all this to Illya's stiff, turned back.

"I'm going," Illya says. And allows his 'cousin' to pull his arm and follows her out of the club.

Napoleon folds himself onto a nearby barstool. He feels deflated. It helps with the vulnerability, he supposes, because Fred walks up to him, drink in hand.

"You look like you could use this," Fred says, smiling sympathetically.

Napoleon can see the smile doesn't reach his eyes, but begins this dance. One he knows by rote, as he's had to dance it often. There's no surprises waiting for him the rest of the night. Except maybe that he may do things just a touch less smooth, a little more reluctantly.

Eventually though, he gets an invite back to Fred's place, an apartment in a not-so busy part of town. Napoleon sees the elements of Fred's diversions all around him; there's pictures, documents, even an open crate of guns. Of course Fred's just that kind of narcissist. Well, since Napoleon's not supposed to survive this night, what harm does it do to show off a little? Maybe scare a little?

A villain is a villain.

Napoleon gets the intel, and a knock in the eye, for his trouble. Sadly, Fred doesn't survive an encounter with a bullet from his very own crate. Pity.

When Napoleon is back in his hotel room, packing his things, there's a knock on the door. He expects it to be Gaby, to give him an earful about earlier. He yells for her to come in.

It's not Gaby. It's Illya, and that... surprises him.

Illya stands just inside the doorway, jaw working, finger tapping. He's not looking at Napoleon, through him, around him, but not at him.

Napoleon begins to worry. He opens his mouth to speak when Illya steps inside fully, closes the door behind him.

Illya looks, really looks at him.

Napoleon's entire being stills. To be looked at like that, is a rare thing. He wants to revel in it, sink down, but he sees Illya notice his swelling eye, sees Illya frown with a purse of his lips. Then the frown melts into a mix of softness and determination.

Illya moves toward him, not slow, but not fast. Illya reaches out with his hand, which hovers above Napoleon's eye, before dropping down slightly. "Next time, I command you to stay, hmm?" Illya says, and clasps Napoleon's shoulder. It turns into a slight caress though.

Napoleon's throat feels dry. He nods. "Next time, Peril."

"Good," Illya says, and kisses him.


End file.
